We must retrograde in our story, and once more return and pick up the dropped stitch at Seaview, from the doors of which the carriage bearing Ellen and her abductors had just driven off. We need no longer hide from our readers the true state of affairs, nor lead them to believe, as Ellen did, her companions were officers of the law. The police officer with the long beard was none other than Sir Richard Musgrave; his assistants Bill Stacy, Farmer Forbes, and his son Archy, who acted as Jehu on the occasion; and they were driving, not to Edinburgh but to Cessford's Peel, in which castle the final scenes of this awful play were to be enacted. The night had been wisely chosen, first from its being Saturday, and the approaching Sunday would come aptly between--secondly from its being a peculiarly dark and rainy evening, and less liability of pursuit being crowned with any success. Contrary to Sir Richard's expectations, now that succour seemed impossible, Ellen Ravensworth nerved herself up for the worst, and did not give way and in a flood of tears supplicate his mercy; on the contrary, she sat beside him apparently little concerned at her fate; her eye was clear, her countenance calm, and without speaking a word she silently seemed offering petitions to the Great Protector for his protection under these trying circumstances. She was innocent, there was nothing to make her terrified, her innocence was at once buckler and sword; she felt sure it would shine forth; she was not living in an uncivilized state; she would be tried by lawful judges; she would have her own father to plead her cause; she would have the powerful assistance of the Earl, her plighted lord--she could feel sure but of one result, she had still higher protection--His aid who has promised to protect frail innocence! and she was certain God would defend the right, and not suffer her to ask his aid in vain. Whilst such high thoughts filled her mind the carriage swept on. "I must be now close to Edinburgh," she thought, and then another thought struck her, by this time her father would be returned--what would be his agony to find his daughter even suspected of such a crime, and he, her own beloved lord, what would he think? how would he receive the news that his promised bride was an inmate of the prison cell? The wife of Caesar must be free even of suspicion,--Lord Wentworth's bride should not even be suspected,--had she given any cause for this? she could not think so, but this second train of thoughts was terrible! Still the carriage rolled on, the horses still dragged it forward at a furious pace--why were not the lights of Edina seen? A horrible thought struck her: she was not going to Edinburgh. She glanced out of the window. It was no thought but reality; on each side rose dark woods, she could dimly see them by the reflection of the carriage lamps. She started up; the officer, thinking she meditated an escape, seized her by the wrist, saying--